I will tell you no more stories, my dear friends. It is said that man is
like the hare, which runs in a circle and comes back to die at the point
from which it started.
Gascony has been calling to me of late. I see the blue Garonne winding
among the vineyards and the bluer ocean toward which its waters sweep.
I see the old town also, and the bristle of masts from the side of the
long stone quay. My heart hungers for the breath of my native air and
the warm glow of my native sun.
Here in Paris are my friends, my occupations, my pleasures. There all
who have known me are in their grave. And yet the southwest wind as
it rattles on my windows seems always to be the strong voice of the
motherland calling her child back to that bosom into which I am ready to
sink. I have played my part in my time. The time has passed. I must pass
also.
Nay, dear friends, do not look sad, for what can be happier than a life
completed in honour and made beautiful with friendship and love? And
yet it is solemn also when a man approaches the end of the long road and
sees the turning which leads him into the unknown. But the Emperor and
all his Marshals have ridden round that dark turning and passed into
the beyond. My Hussars, too--there are not fifty men who are not waiting
yonder. I must go. But on this the last night I will tell you that which
is more than a tale--it is a great historical secret. My lips have
been sealed, but I see no reason why I should not leave behind me some
account of this remarkable adventure, which must otherwise be entirely
lost, since I and only I, of all living men, have a knowledge of the
facts.